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It seems that dear old
Santa ClausOne day in old NovemberReceived a note from Dottie D.,With words and phrases tender,In which she asked the dear old manWith many words of warning,To bring her a new Paris dollOn the next Christmas morning.

Just as he started for his sleighOne eve, in old December,He turned to Mistress Santa ClausAnd said, "Did you rememberAbout that fine new Paris dollFor wee Dot in the city?I must not fail to take that gift,'Twould be a dreadful pity."

It was early in the morning,One day in old December;A very happy, joyous dayThat children all remember,When Santa, on his mission fleet,To the nursery came creeping,And left the fine new Paris dollAmong the others, sleeping.

The holly and the mistletoeWere bright this winter morning;One stocking filled from top to toeThe mantel was adorning.A Christmas tree hung full with gifts,While underneath, reposingOn an upholstered rocking chair,The Paris doll was dozing.

Then suddenly from out the gloomDot's other dolls came peeping,Their hair uncombed, their dresses torn,And noses red with weeping;They talked in whispers soft and low,But tones that grew quite scornful,About the fate that was to greetThis stranger, sad and mournful.

There were Annabel and Bessie,That came one cold December;They hobbled round with broken backsFrom falling on the fender.Then Tommy, Grace, and baby Ruth,All came one birthday party,And Rose and Don a year ago,With Santa Claus so hearty.

They all assembled round the tree,And then with manners shockingThey pinched and shook the Paris doll,And cried in words so mocking - "Why, don't you know, you stupid thing,Dot won't care for another,She has received this Christmas mornA dear, sweet baby brother!"